


the stars look very different today

by wildewoman_22



Category: Mad Men
Genre: M/M, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewoman_22/pseuds/wildewoman_22
Summary: "Stan raised his glass. “A toast,” he said. Under the table, Ginsberg’s knee bumped into his. It was only for a second; yet Stan could feel the warmth of it, of him, pressing through his clothes."Stan and Ginsberg figure each other out. It takes some time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Team creative! This started out as something much shorter, and completely snowballed. There's a bit of fiddling with the canonical timeline in parts.
> 
> Title from Space Oddity by David Bowie, because of course.

Stan tossed his stub of a pencil aside, shaking his hand to try and get some feeling back. In a rare fit of focused creativity, he’d actually managed to knock out all of the new concept sketches for Pond’s and Sugarberry in one go. He leaned back and lit a cigarette, enjoying the afterglow. Not that it would last long – Don had basically fucked off completely since getting married, so the creative department was pretty much just him and Peggy, sometimes Megan. It was exhausting, but he felt weirdly okay with it. There was always a better idea, always something to do.

He still didn’t know why Peggy wanted to sabotage the good thing they had going – not to mention, potentially her own _job_ – by bringing in this new guy, but Peggy Olson was nothing if not stubborn.

She walked into the office then, closing the door behind her and leaning against it dramatically.

“So? Do we have a new roommate?” Stan took a long drag off his cigarette. Peggy sighed and nodded.

“I don’t know how we’re all going to fit in here, but there’s a chance I might shove him out the window before the week’s over, so we might not have to worry about it too long.” She had her exasperated face on – it was the one he was most familiar with.

“That bad, huh?”

“He thought I was a secretary and wouldn’t shut up about Don,” Peggy rolled her eyes. “And then he was just all… twitchy and weird. I almost told him to leave, but he made a decently convincing apology.”

“If he knew what was good for him,” Stan said. Peggy smirked.

“So then I took him to meet Don.”

“And?”

Peggy sank into the couch, tossing her clipboard on the floor. “Well, first he said that he went to peep shows. At a _job interview_.”

“Please tell me it gets better,” Stan said, stubbing out his cigarette. “This is too good.”

“And then he just… changed. It was like a totally different person, I’ve never seen a 180 like that. He kept buttering him up - he actually told Don all he wanted to do was make him smile.”

“Oh my God.” Stan burst out laughing. “A real Campbell-esque kiss-ass.” Peggy snickered, rubbing her temples like reliving this was giving her a headache.

“Either way, he starts tomorrow. He’s just a little… out there.” Stan could see the tiny line between her eyebrows that appeared when she was thinking too hard about something. “But his book really is good,” she sighed, a bit resigned. She wasn’t wrong – Stan had liked what he saw.

“Well, it sounds like he’s working the hell out of the whole ‘eccentric genius’ angle.”

Peggy scowled at him. Stan just laughed again. “Come on, Chief. He can’t be that bad. I mean, Harry still works here, for Christ’s sake,” he said.

 

 

Michael Ginsberg was, in fact, that bad. On his first day, Stan shook his hand and complimented his work - but instead of saying ‘thank you’ like a normal person, the kid actually puffed up and nodded, like he’d been expecting Stan to say that. “My greatest hits,” he said in that Bugs Bunny accent, fiddling with his too-short tie.

“Which one was your favourite? And be totally honest with me,” Ginsberg asked eagerly. He was rocking back and forth on his heels like standing still was killing him. Stan raised his eyebrows, at a loss for words. It felt like Ginsberg’s eyes were practically boring holes into his head; two lasers beaming through his brain. Stan had no idea what to do with that look. He said the first thing that popped into his head: “Uh… I guess the tobacco one, with the close-up of the girl? For Half & Half, right?”

“Ah,” Ginsberg said, quickly looking Stan up and down. He grinned. “Y’know, I thought so.”

Whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean.

 

 

It was nearing ten o’clock, and Stan could feel himself hitting a wall. It had been a hell of a long day. Being cooped up in the creative lounge listening to Peggy and Ginsberg fight about old ladies and their bras and pantyhose and God knows whatever else wasn’t his first choice (or anyone’s) for a Friday night, but if they finished up tonight, they wouldn’t have to come in the rest of the weekend. Peggy had just left to get food, and Ginsberg was scribbling away on his notepad; the scratch of his pen and the occasional groaning of the pipes were the only sounds in the room.

Stan lay back on the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. Peggy wasn’t around to yell at him for falling asleep, so he was just about to drift off for a couple minutes when –

“You know, I really don’t get the point of pantyhose. Why not just – not wear them? Or wear pants? Less layers, you’d think it’d be more convenient,” said Ginsberg. Stan groaned. Through one cracked eyelid, Stan could see him playing with some of the samples Topaz had given them. He was stretching them out like an accordion, eyeballing them like he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Stan yawned.

“I don’t know, man. Skirts are pretty damn convenient for all parties involved,” he joked, grinning sleepily. Ginsberg blinked at him for a long moment, his face blank. Stan was about to tell him to just forget it when Ginsberg’s mouth dropped open slightly.

“Oh,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Yeah, you’re – you’re right on that one.” The main lights of the office had been shut off a few hours ago, so they were relying on a couple of lamps. Even though the room was pretty dim, Stan swore that the kid was blushing. Weird. With all the inappropriate shit he said around the office, he’d been convinced Ginsberg was incapable of being embarrassed. Ginzo quickly looked back down to his notepad. Stan yawned again, hauling himself to a sitting position.

“Come up with anything decent yet? I wanna get the hell out of here.” He rolled his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck where a spring had been poking him. That couch was way past its prime.

“Nah, I just keep going in circles.” Ginsberg kept running a hand through his hair, making it stick up on one side. He looked ridiculous. Stan stretched and walked over to the mess of papers and pantyhose on the table, ruffling Ginsberg’s hair in the process. Ginzo swatted at his hand.

“Hey!”

“You look like a fluffy bird.”

Ginsberg shoved at him, smoothing down his puffy curls. The kid was pouting, and Stan bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. He was almost too easy. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Yeah, go home and sleep.” Stan plopped into a chair and pulled out the storyboards he’d abandoned earlier in favour of napping. Suddenly, Ginsberg stood, metal chair legs scraping loudly across the floor.

“I gotta make a call,” he said abruptly, looking at his watch, and strode across to their shared office without another word.

“I’m back!” called Peggy, her voice echoing through the empty halls. Stan could smell the pizza before he saw it, his mouth watering at the prospect of real food. He opened the box and grabbed a slice before Peggy could set it down. “Where’s Michael?”

“Phone,” he replied around a mouthful of pepperoni. The muffled murmurs behind the office door started getting louder, and Stan could hear the annoyance in Ginsberg’s voice. The guy was always _feeling_ so much; it radiated from him, he couldn't hide anything if he tried. He sounded really pissed off at whoever was on the other end.  It felt like they were eavesdropping, and Stan squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

Peggy frowned. “I think he’s talking to his dad,” she whispered. One thing Stan had learned about Ginsberg right away was that he didn’t like talking about home. He’d get all weird and quiet, sometimes even defensive, so Stan wisely learned not to push the issue. Peggy, on the other hand, still hadn’t really caught on to that fact.

Ginsberg’s face was pinched and tight when he came back. “So I just thought of what we could do with the whole transparency thing,” he said quickly, practically tripping over his words. Probably to stop Peggy from asking the obvious question, even though she was clearly dying to.

“Yeah?” said Stan, trying to keep his voice light.

“A woman walking around downtown, everyone’s heads turning as she passes them. Everyone wants to know, ‘who’s this girl?’ We have no idea why just yet, but she’s got something special. Then she gets to wherever she’s going, she sits down and we see her smile, like she’s got a secret – camera pans down to her legs. Great legs. Topaz Pantyhose: Let yourself be seen.”

Peggy tilted her head to the side, appraising. “It’s a start,” she said evenly, and Stan watched how Ginsberg’s face fell a little. Christ. Would it kill her to toss him a bone? He wiped some tomato sauce from his fingers with a napkin, slapping his palm on the table.

“I like it,” he said. “You really just pulled that out of your ass?”

“Yup,” Ginsberg preened, popping the ‘p.’

“Huh.” Stan flicked his dirty napkin at him. “Well, I’d tell you not to get too cocky, but that ship sailed a long time ago.”

Ginsberg made a scoffing noise. “Fuck you,” he said, but he was smiling.

 

 

He’d never really been big on holidays. Obviously there was Hanukkah, but he and Morris were generally low-key about the whole thing; their biggest traditions were playing dreidel with the Adelsteins and going to the movies on Christmas Day.

More than anything, Ginsberg liked to sit and listen to Morris recite the menorah blessings. One of his earliest memories of New York was watching the reflection of the candlelight flicker in the window, listening to Morris’s gravelly voice chanting out words he didn’t yet understand. Morris had lifted him onto his knee afterwards, his eyes searching Ginsberg’s face like something important was hidden there. _Hanukkah is a time for family, Michael_ , he’d said seriously, holding him close to his chest. _You spend it with people who are special to you_.

“So, are you gonna make an appearance tonight or not?” Stan asked from behind Peggy’s desk. The SCDP Christmas party was that night, and everyone kept asking him if he was going – why did people need to know? He had yet to give a straight answer. He didn’t know if he was totally up for it.

“Not sure,” he said, keeping his eyes on his typewriter.

“Come on, Ginzo. Free food, free booze, free to watch everyone make an ass of themselves - what’s not to like?”

“I just haven’t decided yet! Maybe I got other things to do tonight.”

“Oh,” said Stan. “Is it -” Ginsberg cut him off.

“We’re allowed to go to Christmas parties,” he said dryly. Stan laughed.

“Whatever, moron. Peggy’s bringing Abe, so you know that’ll be a good time.”

“Fine, I’ll go.” Ginsberg waved his hands dismissively. “Now leave me alone, I’ve gotta get this done.”

Stan shut the door behind him with a soft click. Even though Stan annoyed the hell out of him most days, Ginsberg really did like the guy. He was one of the only people at work who didn’t look at him like he was a total fungus all the time. He was rarely thrown off by Ginsberg’s lack of filter, or if he was, he hardly ever showed it. It was nice, having someone around who didn’t try to get him to act different.

Later, Ginsberg tore apart his drawers, tossing clothes on the floor as he went. “Pop! Where’s my green sweater?”

“In the wash!”

“Shit,” Ginsberg hissed. Morris appeared in the doorway. “What do you need that for?”

“Office party,” Michael replied curtly, taking his red blazer off its hanger. It had a tiny hole in the sleeve that he’d been meaning to fix, but it would have to do for tonight. “Ah,” said Morris. He moved to turn away, but then paused. “Do you have a date?”

“ _Pop_.”

“What? I’m just asking! Why didn’t you tell me about this party? You could have asked that nice Farber girl to go with you. She’s a catch.”

“I’m not talking about this,” Ginsberg growled. His father covered his eyes for a moment, letting out a long sigh. “Okay, Michael,” he said in a tired voice, and slowly walked back to the kitchen.

Loud music and the sounds of conversation and clinking glass greeted him before he even opened the door, the air hazy with cigarette smoke. He ditched his jacket in creative, looking around for anyone he knew. Ginsberg snuck over to the punch table, squeezing past Lane and Joan, who were huddled together laughing over something. It took him a second to notice the brown-haired woman holding Lane’s arm. She looked like she hadn’t found the joke all that funny. Who knew Lane even had a wife?

Ginsberg sipped at his punch, wincing at the aftertaste – a third of it was probably booze. There was a tug on his sleeve, and he turned to find Peggy, arm in arm with Abe. She looked a little drunk; the bow on the front of her dress was crooked.

“Hey! Ginsberg, you remember Abe.” She gestured towards him with her free hand. Michael nodded. “I do indeed. How’s it going?”

Abe shrugged, raising his glass. “Top shelf liquor I didn’t pay for, can’t complain,” he said. Peggy giggled, her cheeks going pink. “Is Stan around?” Ginsberg asked.

Peggy wrinkled her nose and stood on her tiptoes, scanning the room. “I don’t think he’s here yet.” She waved to someone just past Ginsberg’s shoulder. “I’m just gonna go say hi to Don and Megan,” she said apologetically, grinning at him as she tugged Abe away.

Ginsberg milled around the throngs of people, talking a bit with some of the freelancers but mostly keeping to himself. He was starting to feel kind of weird, an empty, dull feeling in the pit of his stomach – probably from the punch. He wasn’t much of a drinker.

“Ginzo!”

Stan clapped him on the arm, grinning. “What do you think, ten bucks says Harry strikes out with at least three secretaries before midnight.” He pointed over to where Harry Crane had cornered a very bored-looking Clara. Ginsberg snorted.

“Nah, I think we’ll hit at least five before 10:30,” he replied. Stan was wearing a jacket he’d never seen before; blue with little plaid checks all over it. It kept pulling tight across his shoulders when he moved, and for some reason, Ginsberg found it hard to look right at him for too long. He stared down at his nearly empty cup, cursing the booze.

“Where’s the food? I’m starving,” Stan said.

“When aren’t you?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Right,” he huffed. A tall, skinny girl with blonde hair came up behind him. She had on a dark purple dress with big, gauzy sleeves. “There you are!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arm around Stan’s waist.

“Ginzo, this is Leah. Leah, Michael Ginsberg.” She reached out to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you!” she chirped. Stan was smiling at her.

“Likewise,” said Ginsberg. “Are you an artist, too?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I’m a law student at NYU.”

“Oh.”

“Is the food all gone?” Stan asked her. Leah shook her head. “Hang on, I’ll go grab a plate,” she said, pecking him on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd. Ginsberg cleared his throat. The dull feeling from before was even worse, a hard clenching deep inside his ribs; suddenly, all he wanted to do was go home.

“Hey, you okay?” Stan sounded sort of worried. Michael avoided the question. “Your girlfriend seems nice,” he said, trying to ignore the stupid lump in his throat.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” replied Stan in a flat voice.

“Well, I think I’m gonna get going. Didn’t realize what time it was,” said Ginsberg after a beat. “Morris is sick, I told him I’d stop by the pharmacy before it closed.” The lie rolled easily from his lips, but he could tell Stan didn’t believe him. He was giving Ginsberg a strange look, and it seemed like he wanted very badly to say something.

“Okay, man,” Stan said finally, his words measured. He was frowning a little. “I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yeah,” said Ginsberg. “See you then.”

Michael stood outside on the sidewalk for a few minutes, staring up at the sky. He gulped down cold air until he felt like he could breathe again. The evening was cloudy and dark; he couldn't see any stars.

 

 

They were in a dive bar two blocks over from work, and Peggy had insisted on buying the first round – half of which Ginsberg accidentally spilled on the table while telling a joke, his elbows flying all over the damn place. You couldn’t take him anywhere, really. They got the mess cleaned up eventually, with Ginsberg apologizing every five seconds, and resettled in their booth.

Peggy was silent for a moment, nervously biting her lip. “I brought you guys here because I have news, and I wanted you to hear it straight from me,” she began, her eyes flicking back and forth between Stan and Ginsberg. She took a deep breath. “I’m leaving,” she said.

“Where are you going?” demanded Ginsberg. “CGC,” Peggy replied, tapping her fingers against her glass. Stan wasn’t totally surprised. The writing was on the wall; he knew Peggy wasn’t happy where she was, and hadn’t been for a while. Didn’t make it suck any less, though.

“Greener pastures, huh?” he said. Peggy’s smile was bittersweet. “Something like that.”

“Well, we’ll miss you, Chief.”

“Yeah,” said Ginsberg, “I can’t believe you’re just gonna leave me alone with him like that.” He tried to keep his expression serious, but he grinned at Stan and ruined the effect. Stan smirked. He felt a weird tingling in his palms, and rubbed his hand on his pant leg to make the feeling go away.

“Don’t worry, Ginzo, I’ll be making sure you don’t completely fuck up Peggy’s accounts,” he deadpanned. Peggy laughed, and then went quiet. “I’ll miss you idiots, too. Please try not to kill each other.”

"I make no promises," said Ginsberg.

Stan raised his glass. “A toast,” he said. Under the table, Ginsberg’s knee bumped into his. It was only for a second; yet Stan could feel the warmth of it, of him, pressing through his clothes. Ginsberg held his gaze as he lifted his glass in the air.

“To living in the trenches,” Stan pronounced.

“Slogging through the shit,” Ginsberg said with a flourish, his glass clinking against Stan’s.

 

 

Stan stubbed out the end of his cigarette as soon as he saw the clock hit six. Time to call it a day. He packed his things and grabbed his jacket, heading for the door. He could hear music coming from inside the office he shared with Ginsberg, which meant he was still working – Ginzo had been holed up in there all day, only coming out for the bathroom. He got like that sometimes, usually when he was blocked on an idea. The moron had probably eaten a candy bar for lunch, if he’d eaten at all. Stan rapped twice on the door and poked his head in.

“You should take a walk, man. It’s starting to stink in here.”

Ginsberg scowled. The desk was a complete mess, papers and crumpled wrappers strewn all over the place. Aretha Franklin was playing on the radio in the corner.

“Shut up, asshole,” he said, but there was no force behind it. Stan closed the door behind him, picking up a sheet that had doodles of airplanes all over it. “Mohawk again?” Ginsberg nodded.

He looked like hell, if Stan was being honest. Ginsberg’s clothes were wrinkled and baggy, and his hair badly needed a comb. He wondered when the kid had last gotten a good night’s sleep – he looked exhausted.

“They’re presenting the new ads to Jaguar tomorrow,” said Ginsberg, tapping a nervous rhythm on the desk with his pencil. Stan knew how protective of that campaign he was – he’d been so cagey and secretive working on it, growling at anyone who got too close. No wonder he was so strung out.

“It’ll be fine,” reassured Stan, taking a seat on the couch. “What are you working on now?” Ginsberg rifled through his papers, looking annoyed.

“Whenever I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” he said. He eyed Stan’s jacket. “Were you leaving?”

“Ginzo, it’s six.”

“Oh,” he said, checking his watch. He held it up to his ear. “This thing’s a piece of shit.” He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “I had no big plans tonight, anyway.”

Stan thought about that: how Michael hardly ever talked about life outside of work, how Stan imagined him spending Friday nights at home, talking back to the TV. He wondered when it was that he'd started to care about how Ginsberg put in his days, or whether he was pushing himself too hard. He didn't think there were many people who did. Shrugging his jacket off, he settled back into the couch with a sigh.

Ginsberg blinked. “I thought you were going home.”

“Well, you look like you could use a break.”

He squinted at him, disbelieving, and then settled back in his chair, satisfied with whatever he’d seen in Stan’s face. “Okay.”

They mostly talked about movies, about how Ginsberg had seen _Cool Hand Luke_ three times in one week – he tried to describe to Stan why he liked it so much without giving away the whole story. They discussed _Rosemary’s Baby_ for half an hour ( _Y’know, I’m not surprised you love the Occult, seeing as you have no conscience_ ), and delved deep into Stan’s secret fondness for Jack Lemmon ( _I can’t believe I associate with someone who’s never seen Some Like It Hot. I should pretend I don’t know you_ ).

Stan told him a story about how he and his cousin Robbie once got high and accidentally snuck into a kid’s movie – he still didn’t remember which one – and got kicked out for being too rowdy. It was the first time Stan had really talked about him since he – well. Since his aunt had gotten a letter. Ginsberg knew, and he had listened quietly, for once not interrupting or commenting on the fact that Stan couldn’t really look at him while he talked about it. They talked about everything and nothing, the sky growing darker outside.

“I’m gonna grab a snack,” said Stan, stretching. “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He came back five minutes later with a bag of peanuts, laying back on the couch and popping a couple into his mouth. “If you could fly anywhere, where would you go?” Ginsberg asked, looking down at the research for Mohawk.

Stan didn’t hesitate. “Italy.”

“Why?”

“To visit the Vatican Museums.”

“Gotta say, that’s very unexpected.”

Stan laughed. “My grandmother, she was a grade-A Catholic, obsessed with the Pope. She had this huge book about the museums when I was a kid, with the history and everything. It had a couple pictures, too, with some of the paintings.” He remembered how he always went back to the Raphael paintings, tracing over the lines and shapes with a careful finger. He’d been about six years old when Nana had first showed him the book, and he’d said that the art was pretty. Nana had beamed at him.

“I probably looked at that thing until the pages fell out. I was over to her house a lot,” he paused. “My folks, they didn’t get along well. Her place was four blocks from ours, so I went there when it got… loud,” he said awkwardly.

He’d lived with her for a while when he was ten, but he didn’t tell Ginsberg that part.

“Anyway, I told her once that I wanted to do what the painters did, and she was the first person to tell me that I could.” Stan snorted derisively. “The _only_ one who said that I could. Dad wasn’t big on the whole drawing thing, obviously.”

He expected Ginsberg to respond with some stupid comment, but instead the kid was just _looking_ at him with those huge, round eyes. It wasn’t any of his expressions that Stan was familiar with; it was a little wistful, Ginsberg’s cheeks flushed pink, his palms spread flat on the desk.

It probably should have made him uncomfortable. He chose not to dwell on it.

“The Vatican Museums,” Ginsberg said in a soft voice, almost more to himself than to Stan. “Never would’ve guessed.”

“Where would you go?”

“If I could go anywhere?” Ginsberg thought for a moment. “I’d go to space.”

Of course he would. Stan smiled. “Figures.”

“It’s just – there’s so much out there, you know? We don’t know about any of it. Maybe there’s all kinds of places we could go up there,” Ginsberg stared out the window. “Better places.”

He sounded lonelier than Stan had ever heard him; the ache in his voice was unmistakable. 

As they were finally leaving the office, he turned to Ginsberg, who was fiddling with that ridiculous green hat. He didn’t look as haggard as before, but there was a lingering nervousness clinging to him like a fog. Stan sighed.

“Listen, Jaguar will love it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Stan wanted to make the kid laugh, wanted to smooth out the tense lines between his brows and have him be his annoying self again. 

“Well, we’re gonna have to celebrate. Friend of mine is playing a show on Friday night – he’s not very good, but he gets cheap drinks. You should come by.”

Ginsberg gaped openly at him. Jesus. When was the last time anyone had invited him to something?

“Okay,” he said, a tiny smile spreading across his face. “Friday night.”

“Friday night,” Stan echoed. “Night, Ginzo.”

 

 

The phone rang on Thursday evening.

“Ginsberg residence,” said Michael.

“Ginzo, it’s me.”

“Oh. Hi. What’s up?”

There was rustling on the other end. “I just got off the phone with Peggy. Guess fucking what - apparently, we’re merging.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“The brilliant brainchild of Draper and Ted Chaough. I don’t know, bigger accounts, I guess.” Stan let out a dry laugh. “It’s gonna be a mess,” he said.

“No kidding. When?”

“Starting sometime next week, maybe. Holy shit, right?”

“How’s it even going to work? Are we moving? No way the office is big enough for that many people,” Ginsberg said, frowning.

“Well, there probably won’t _be_ that many people, if you get what I mean.”

Oh, shit. Fuck. That much should have been obvious. Ginsberg felt clammy all of a sudden, an anxious flush creeping up his neck.

“Should – are you worried? They wouldn’t fire you,” said Ginsberg.

“As shitty as this is gonna sound, no, they probably won’t,” Stan sighed. “Peggy says their art director has cancer.”

“Jesus.” Ginsberg couldn’t stop pacing, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder. “I hate job hunting.”

“What? Ginzo, they’re not going to fire you,” Stan said in his ‘ _Ginsberg, you idiot_ ’ voice. “Your ideas are too good for that. They’d be stupid to.”

“Yeah, they – they love my ideas, but they don’t love me,” he replied, feeling more worked up by the second. “Pretty sure all of the partners hate my guts. Don’s been wanting me fired since he hired me. I’m probably first on his list.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t know that!”

There was a long pause on the other end. When Stan spoke again, his voice was quiet and careful; if it had been anyone else, Ginsberg would have said ‘gentle.’

“Michael,” he began, and that was weird - Stan never called him by his first name. “Listen to me, man. I really think you have nothing to worry about. You’re good at what you do. You've got talent. Trust me, okay? Please, just relax.”

Ginsberg sucked in a breath and willed his heart to stop pounding. He had a creeping realization that it wasn’t because he was worried about the merger. Stan was always saying stuff, and sometimes it resulted in some (dumb, irrational, _hopeful_ ) physical reactions that just came out of nowhere. 

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” asked Stan.

“I don’t know, you just – know the right things to say to people,” said Michael.

“I’ve become fluent in Ginsberg, unfortunately.”

“Jerk,” Michael said, grinning.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ginsberg moved to hang up the phone, but pulled it back. “Stan?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks,” he said, a warm feeling curling through him.

Morris was standing in the hall when he hung up the phone. He had a weird look on his face. “Who was that?”

“Stan.”

Morris nodded slowly, and Ginsberg could sense what he was thinking; it made his skin crawl. The old man was always in his business. He didn’t want Morris to – oh, who was he kidding? There was no reason for Morris to think anything. Ginsberg was being too sensitive, too stupid. He pushed past him and went into his bedroom, gritting his teeth when Morris followed behind.

“Look, I…” Morris chose his words carefully. “Michael, I want you to have friends. It’s good for you to have – people. I want you to do what you want,” he said. Ginsberg felt like his mouth had gone dry.

“I-is that supposed to mean something?”

Morris smiled softly at him. “You’re my son,” he said. “I only mean for you to be happy.”

 

 

Stan rolled his eyes when Jack took to the stage again. He really needed to quit with the Dylan covers – he always ended up doing a brutal impression, and the whole thing was just hard to watch. Ginsberg didn’t seem to care; he was tapping his foot along to the music. They were sitting with a random mix of people, some of them were mutual friends of his and Jack’s, others Stan hadn’t met before. He drained the last of his beer and set the bottle down on the table with a satisfied smack. He could feel the buzz starting, a tingling in his face and limbs. He was fairly sure Ginsberg was on his way to drunk – the kid was pretty giggly and his eyes were bright. He was still sort of jittery, but Stan felt glad to see him enjoying himself.

Jack finished his set, and Ginsberg leaned over to Stan. “I need some air,” he said, a slight edge to his voice. Stan felt around for a cigarette. “I’ll come with you.”

There was a tiny park across from the bar, so they decided to take a quick walk. There were cabs parked outside; last call was coming up. Ginsberg was definitely a little drunk - he was stumbling a bit, bumping against Stan.

“I thought you said this guy was no good. It was packed in there,” he said.

Stan laughed. “It’s a weekend, Ginsberg, bars tend to get crowded.”

“It makes me feel weird.”

“What do you mean?”

Ginsberg shook his head. “You know how I am, Stan, you _know_ ,” and yeah, it was time to sit down. They plopped down onto the grass. Ginsberg started pulling at it, picking apart the weeds around them. His good mood seemed to have disappeared somewhere on the walk over.

“I get a little out of my head sometimes,” he said with a bit of force, like he'd been trying to keep it in but it was bound to get out there anyway. “Not just with crowds. I get all excited, but not good excited, it’s like a bad feeling… like something bad’s happening even when I _know_ there isn’t. Feels like I might choke or something unless I get out of there. Sometimes if I don’t, I really freak out.”

Ginsberg looked down at the blades of grass between his fingers. He snapped a couple pieces in half. “I hate it,” he said in a quiet voice. “I don’t think it’s normal.” He sounded ashamed, which nearly broke Stan’s heart. He knew that Ginsberg was a nervous sort of person, but he had no idea how deep it ran. He wondered how much of every day Ginsberg felt like this – was he such a shitty friend that he just hadn’t noticed? Probably.  

He was also definitely sure that Ginsberg would have never said any of this if he were sober.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Ginsberg, forcing him to make eye contact. He put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Fuck being normal. Nobody’s normal, we’re all just trying to figure shit out. You’re just… you. Don’t feel bad about feeling bad.”

Ginsberg’s eyes were wide, and it was like Stan was seeing him for the first time. That same laser beam look.

“You’re my best friend, you know,” Ginsberg said.

Maybe it was because he was buzzed, or maybe it was because of what was just said, but Stan was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting, of the heat of Ginsberg’s skin rising through his sweater, of the intensity of his gaze. Before he could think too closely about it, Ginsberg’s lips were pressing against his, warm and dry.

It was quick, hardly a real kiss at all. But Stan felt himself flush hot and cold; his spine prickling like he was seventeen again. Ginsberg pulled back immediately, and he looked absolutely terrified. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, scrambling up off the ground.

“Wait – Ginsberg -” Stan called after him, but Ginsberg was fast; he was practically running. Stan watched him get in one of the cabs idling on the sidewalk. He stayed there in the grass for a very long time.

 

 

Ginsberg didn’t come to work on Monday. Stan felt it like a punch in the gut.

 

 

He was pacing around their office when Stan came in early Tuesday evening, running his hands frantically through his hair. Stan closed the door and crossed his arms, waiting; letting him be the first one to say something.

“Look – I – I’m going to Sterling tomorrow, and I’m gonna tell him I quit,” said Ginsberg.

“ _What_?”

“I’ll go work someplace else, it’ll be fine, we – we can pretend it never happened.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

Ginsberg couldn’t look him in the eye. “Because I fucked up, and I know you’re not – like that.”

“I don’t think you get to decide what kind of person I am.”

“Stan.” Ginsberg stopped pacing; he was pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was shaky. “I don’t think you understand.”

But that was the thing – he did. He took a step towards Ginsberg, his palms up like he was approaching a scared animal. “It’s okay,” he said gently.

“No, it isn’t,” said Ginsberg. “I can’t – I can’t work here and just be your friend.” His face was raw and open; Stan swallowed at the honesty of it.

“I don’t need any more friends,” said Stan. He walked closer to Ginsberg, not breaking eye contact. He could hear the way Ginsberg’s breathing sped up; there was hardly any space between them. In a move that was possibly incredibly stupid, Stan curled his fingers around the back of Ginsberg’s neck and kissed him, softly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ginsberg breathed against his mouth. “You – _we_ -”

“You’re a real moron sometimes, you know that?” Stan said lowly in his ear. Ginsberg kissed him again; it was hungry, overwhelming, like he’d been wanting to do it for a long time. His hands were braced against Stan’s chest, clutching at his shirt.

It wasn’t weird. Stan wasn’t sure when he'd stopped giving a shit, but as he felt the muscles flexing in Ginsberg’s back, his spine solid beneath his fingers, he knew that it probably happened a long time ago. Maybe he’d never cared at all.

He mouthed at his jawline, slipping a hand between them to carefully press against the front of Ginsberg’s pants, feeling the hard shape of him. “ _Fuck_ ,” Ginsberg hissed through his teeth.

“Is this okay?” Stan said, moving to unzip him. “Jesus – yes – please,” Ginsberg breathed. He let out a shuddery, needy breath when Stan got a hand around him, hot and tight and a little rough. Stan started to stroke him, and Ginsberg grabbed onto his arm like he needed to feel him moving. Christ. Ginsberg had his face pressed against the side of Stan’s neck, breath coming in short little gasps. Stan started to speed up, relishing in the way Ginsberg trembled under his hands.

"Oh -  _oh -_ fuck," he was saying. 

“I – I’m gonna-” Ginsberg mumbled, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of Stan’s throat. He pulled back slightly, wanting to – needing to see him. He came with Stan’s eyes watching him; studying, committing it to memory. Stan touched him through it, riding out the aftershocks.

“Holy shit,” said Ginsberg, dazed.

Stan smirked. “A ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

Ginsberg got down on his knees, a hand on Stan’s zipper. Stan looked up at the ceiling. “Oh my God,” he said, his voice strangled; cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to-”

“I _want_ to,” said Ginsberg, stubborn like he was when he fought with Stan over a pitch; it was familiar, comfortable, like coming home after a long day.

He put his mouth on him, tentative and uncertain in a way that was so unlike Ginsberg that it was fucking perfect. Stan coached him through it, teaching him how to use his tongue and lips to make him feel good, Ginsberg’s hands gripping eagerly at his hips and legs. Ginsberg moaned; Stan felt it everywhere.

He cupped the back of Ginsberg’s head as they moved together, the weight of his hand guiding him, keeping him close.

 

 

(They do eventually go to Italy. It rains through most of the week. The hotel room is a shoebox, but it has a balcony with a view; the sprawl of Rome is laid out like a painting. Ginsberg wants to capture it, so Stan gives him drawing lessons. He tells him about different techniques, how to get the shading just right, his larger hand occasionally folding over Michael’s, pushing the pencil onto the paper. When it’s finished, Stan tells him he has to sign his name at the bottom - _it’s what artists do, dummy_.

So he does – _Ginsberg & Rizzo, ’71_, it reads. Stan frames it when they get home.)


End file.
